“Oh, I knew.” I give a wry chuckle. “I figured he’d love the thought that went into it. And he did, I think. But looking back? I don’t remember either of us actually enjoying the party. I remember worrying about the playlist volume and whether the cake was too dry and losing the last five pounds.”
Viv whistles. “You went full Martha.”
“Oh, Martha wished,”I mutter.
“Did he like it?”
“He smiled. He was grateful. But he looked… tired. Overwhelmed. Afterward, he told me he’d wanted a backyard barbecue. Burgers, karaoke, and an inflatable palm tree cooler. Piña coladas in plastic coconuts.” The memory twists around my heart.
“I flipped out at the idea and told him I wouldn't be caught dead throwing a party that tacky. He laughed and said, ‘Babe, if there’s no inflatable palm tree cooler, is it even a party?’ And now I’d give anything to go back and give him that stupid palm tree cooler, give him the party he would’ve thrown if I hadn’t hijacked it with floral arrangements and tapas.”
They’re quiet. Not because they don’t know what to say, but because they do. Because this is the kind of thing we all understand now. The things we didn’t do. The times we didn’t listen.
“So,” I shift my laptop slightly so they don’t see the pile of laundry behind me, “for his would-have-been fiftieth, I want to do it differently. I want tacky. Loud. I want plastic cheese melted on burgers, bad karaoke, and someone falling into an inflatable pool after one too many piña coladas, served in coconut cups with little umbrellas. I owe him the party he would’ve loved.”
Viv leans back in her chair, arms crossed, one eyebrow already halfway to the ceiling. “You want it to feel like him.”
“Exactly.”
“And also like you,” Marin adds, tilting her head. “The you now. The you that doesn’t give a damn what the PTA thinks.”
I grin. “Yes. That me.”
Viv narrows her eyes. “So what are you saying? You want help planning a tiki-themed griefapalooza?”
“Think more grief luau.” Am I doing this? “Less black dresses, more plastic coconuts and frozen drink blenders that will absolutely explode mid-party. Owen’s old colleagues, our college friends, a few of the neighbors. All of Owen’s favorite people.”
Marin gasps, dramatically clutching her cereal bowl like it’s a microphone. “Can I emcee the karaoke portion? I do a killer Alanis Morissette.”
“Only if I get to sing ‘Islands in the Stream’ with a cardboard cutout of Owen,” Viv adds, already pulling out a notepad.
“You’re joking.” I don’t know whether to laugh, be shocked, or be horrified.
Viv’s expression turns uncharacteristically soft. “I’m not, actually. I think it’s perfect. The whole point of grief, at least what we’ve decided in our very official weekly Zoom grief dare therapy club, is to stop letting it shrink us. You’re not shrinking. You’re throwing a backyard blowout in honor of someone you love. That’s sacred.”
“And deeply chaotic,” Marin adds.
“Both. I want to remember him laughing. I want my kids to see joy. I want to stop living like being composed is the same thing as being okay.”
Viv straightens in her chair, eyes bright. “We’re coming out.”
I blink. “What?”
“We’ll come help. With the party. With everything. I’ve got unused vacation days, zero plans, and a growing need to escape my neighbor who’s started naked sunbathing on his back porch.”
“I’m in too.” Marin brushes cereal dust off her sweatshirt. “What’s the point of working from home if you don’t change up your office once in a while? And I’ve got a glitter glue gun and absolutely no shame when it comes to Dollar Tree décor.”
My mouth hangs open, and I snap it shut. “I can’t believe you’re serious.”
“Of course we are. We’ll help you plan.” Marin’s already tapping away on her keyboard, presumably activating accountant mode and crunching the numbers. “Keep you from spiral-purchasing a twelve-foot inflatable parrot.”
“Speak for yourself.” Viv is pulling out what appears to be an old Hawaiian print shirt from a dresser drawer. “I fully support the parrot.”
Tears fill my eyes as I listen to the two of them go back and forth about dates and details and plane tickets.
They both pause. “Birdie.” Viv’s voice is soft. “If we can’tshow up for a tiki-themed milestone grief bash, what are we even doing?”
“She’s right.” It looks like Marin is already rummaging in her closet for a suitcase. “This is what the grief pact was for.”
